Albanon stared at the floor, trying to comprehend what had happened to the town he’d called home for seven years.
Kri stepped forward. “I’ll tell you how we defend it,” he said. “We find the source of the plague and wipe it from the face of the earth.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Once they left the Witchlight Fens, Quarhaun’s recovery slowed dramatically, as if distance from the swamp prevented Kssansk’s water spirits from working their healing magic on him any longer. By the time they made camp, just a few hours outside the borders of the swamp, the drow had a high fever. He babbled nonsense as Shara wrapped him in his bedroll and forced him to lie still beside their campfire.
In the morning, his fever was worse, and she could barely rouse him into wakefulness. He’d open his eyes, say something unintelligible in Elven or Draconic or some other tongue-often with a dopey smile on his face-then close them again, falling limp in her arms.
“This is bad,” she said to Uldane, looking down at the drow with her hands on her hips.
“We’re only a few hours from Fallcrest,” the halfling said. “Do you think you can carry him that far?”
“If I do, it’ll take more than a few hours, but it’s possible.”
“We could build a raft and pole it up the river to town. That’s the halfling way, after all.”
“I wish we’d thought of that while we were still in the swamp. With the lizardfolk’s help, we could have built a raft in no time.”
“Maybe we should just let him sleep another day,” Uldane said, staring at Quarhaun thoughtfully. “Maybe by tomorrow morning, he’ll feel better and be ready to walk himself into town.”
“Or maybe he’ll be dead,” Shara said. “I’d like to get him to a healer as soon as we can. If Albanon and Kri have returned, Kri could help him. And it’d be good to check in with them.”
“Do you think it’s that serious?” Uldane said, his eyes suddenly wide. He took a few nervous steps toward where Quarhaun lay.
“Yes.” Shara ran her fingers through her hair. “I have an idea. We’ll build a small raft, just big enough for him to lie on.”
Uldane brightened, nearly jumping up from his seat. “Like the one that carried the Sleeping Prince!”
“I don’t know that story, but tell me later. We’ll tie some rope to the raft, and we can pull him upstream. We walk on the riverbank or wade in the shallows, and he gets a smooth ride.”
“You really like him, don’t you?” Uldane’s expression was serious again, a little crease between his eyebrows expressing a hint of disapproval.
“Like him? Not really, no. He’s cowardly, insensitive, snide, and sometimes mean.”
Uldane’s face broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, he can be a real bugbear.”
“But he has been an enormous help to us,” Shara continued. “So as much as I’d like to just leave him here for the ankhegs …”
“He sure likes you, though.”
“Stop it.”
“It’s a bit creepy, actually. The way he watches you, sometimes it’s like a dragon watching its prey.”
“That doesn’t make it sound like he likes me. More like he wants to eat me.”
“You know what I mean, Shara.”
Shara felt her face grow red, and she turned away. “What can we use to make a little raft?”
Uldane proved surprisingly skilled at weaving reeds around a basic frame of branches to make a simple raft. Shara knew that halflings were river-dwellers, but in all their years of adventuring together she’d never seen Uldane demonstrate the skills he must have been born into. Shara held her breath as she gently lowered a moaning Quarhaun into the raft, and she sighed with relief when it held him afloat.
“Maybe this will keep him closer to the water spirits,” Uldane said as Shara worked her rope into a simple harness.
“That would be good. Although I don’t know if the river has the same spirits as the swamp.”
“Do you suppose they’re friends or enemies?”
“Who?”
“The water spirits. Do the ones in the river like the ones in the swamp? Or do they think they’re dirty, ugly, lazy spirits because they don’t flow bright and clear the way the river spirits do?”
Shara blinked at Uldane, then turned to look at the river. She felt, in a way, like she’d never really seen the river before-the way the sunlight gleamed on the water as it rushed by, the dance of the plants that grew beneath the surface as the water swirled around them, the darting fish and skimming insects. And beneath or behind all that, in a way that words couldn’t describe, the spirits of the river, laughing as they tripped along through the banks.
She stooped and dipped her hand in the water, feeling the water tug at her fingers, inviting her to join their tripping band. “Please,” she whispered, “help him.” She scooped a handful of water from the river and sprinkled it on Quarhaun, then shouldered her harness and started walking upriver, toward Fallcrest.
As they walked, Uldane prattled on about the water spirits, marveling at the sensation of the water flowing over him as Kssansk healed his wounds, speculating at more length about the relationship between the river spirits and the swamp spirits, not to mention the spirits in Lake Nen and Lake Wintermist, at the heads of the river. Oh, and the ocean spirits, or bay spirits, or whatever lay far to the south where the river, under some other name, at last joined with the sea.
Shara just let his words wash over her-like the water spirits, she decided, soothing away her cares.
After an hour or so of uninterrupted talking, Uldane suddenly fell silent. Shara thought he might have been in midsentence, but she racked her brain to remember what he’d said, in case he asked a question and was awaiting a response. Something about … oysters?
“I don’t remember that,” the halfling said at last.
Shara looked down at him, then followed his gaze off to the east across the river, where a fire-blackened farmhouse stood beside the scorched remnants of its fields.
“I do remember the house,” Shara said. “It’s the Wintermoot place, the farthest farm outside of Fallcrest. When you leave the town along the river, it’s the last farm you see before you’re in the wilds. When you’re coming back, it’s the first farm you see, so you know you’re almost there. I wonder what happened.”
Uldane looked concerned for a long moment, then his irrepressible smile reasserted itself. “I remember people talking about how you couldn’t start a meeting until the Wintermoots arrived. Once they were there, well, it didn’t matter who else was missing, because you know they’d had plenty of time to get there. If the Wintermoots could get there, then why couldn’t you, right?”
“Look, there’s still some smoke puffing out of the house. It must have been recent.”
“We passed a ford not too long ago,” Uldane said, though he looked like he dreaded what Shara might say in answer.
“No, I don’t think there’s anything left to be done. I think it happened recently, but not today. I’m sure we’ll hear what happened when we get to Fallcrest.”
“And sleep in real beds!” Uldane said, starting to walk again. “If Albanon’s not at the tower, are we staying at the Nentir Inn?”
“That’s what I figured. Is that all right with you?”
“Well, part of me feels like we should give our business to the Silver Unicorn-you know, help out the clan.”
“Are you related to Wisara Osterman?” The stern matriarch who owned Fallcrest’s more expensive inn seemed about as unlike Uldane as Shara could imagine.
“Not in any way I could trace. But I’m sure there are ties.”
“We can stay at the Silver Unicorn if you want to, Uldane.”
“Well, the rest of me thinks Wisara is a crotchety old coot who doesn’t deserve our business.”
“Oh, good.”
“Besides, I don’t think she’d be particularly welcoming to our new friend.” Uldane nodded toward the raft where Quarhaun was sleeping soundly.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Shara said. “I really hope Albanon is back and we can stay in the tower, because I’m not sure we’re going to do much better at the Nentir Inn. You don’t see a lot of drow in Fallcrest.”